


Burning Bridges (while I'm standing in the middle)

by sammyspreadyourwings



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Dork Lovers Server Challenge (Queen Band), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Hot Space Era, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Lack of Communication, M/M, Making Up, Miscommunication, Multi, Mutual Pining, One-Sided Attraction, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Polyamory Negotiations, References to Depression, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Suicidal Thoughts, Therapy, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, ask to tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 23:35:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19328389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammyspreadyourwings/pseuds/sammyspreadyourwings
Summary: If you ask Brian, he'd say the soul-bruises, or whatever they're called, are completely worthless, he knows who he loves. He doesn't need help with that (but he does need help).akaThe soulmark doesn't work as intended and Brian battles depression.





	Burning Bridges (while I'm standing in the middle)

**Author's Note:**

> So. This was new and long, and I'm posting this when I'm very tired, but I'll forget if I don't. Er, yeah, read the tags and then read the fic!

The bruises aren’t meant to fade. They’re meant to grow and stain and be interpreted by a hundred different interpreters when you’re twenty-five and it is still the angry red of a newborn’s mark.

Then you meet someone, and it’s gone. Congratulations, you’ve met your soulmate. You win the lottery.

Brian made his peace. _Sure,_ his bruise was still red. _Yes,_ he was in his thirties. _Maybe,_ his being angry and resentful ruined his marriage. _But_ he had made his peace. It was _fine._ He was in a world-famous band, touring the world with his best friends, a millionaire.

_Okay,_ the touring drained him of the little energy he has and the angry comments lingered in the fuzziness of his brain. He goes home to an empty mansion every night or a cold hotel bed _and_ his best friends are fucking each other (and maybe he wants to be included in that part of their relationship).

Things could be better, hell they can’t be worse than the time he nearly _died,_ but he’d made his peace (then and now, why fight the inevitable?). He knew his friends loved him (platonically, deeply) and that for every ten fans that hated them there were a hundred more that loved them.

Empty mansion but loved. Living his dreams but alone. It was balanced. It was fine. He was at peace with it.

It only took four weeks for his peace to shatter after Jim Hutton enters stage right.

The thing is, while bruises aren’t _meant_ to fade, he figured out at the soft age of twenty-two that they _do._ They do when a person has multiple “soulmates.” It wasn’t hard to draw the lines between Roger’s deep purple turning to more of a bluish color and then seeing Freddie’s own blue bruise a few weeks later when Brian was introduced.

The confirmation comes when John played a jaunty ¾ time signature in his band audition and then Freddie and Roger both had green tinges that next morning.

His stayed angry and red and he nearly hated John, because the bassist shows up for their first practice together with a forearm of yellow-green. He couldn’t hate John, because had done nothing but win the lottery and play a fantastic bass.

If Brian could have only one thing, he’d take the band. Then he could have them in some way.

So, when he sees Freddie’s back clear of any bruise (rambling about a gardener of all things), he can’t be blamed for his snippy tone. Roger topples his drumkit after the show but before the encore, and John’s amp minibar seems emptier. Brian feels some sort of vindication at their reaction.

Roger’s collarbone bruise vanishes the next week, and he barges into Brian’s mansion screeching about some bloke (an Irish gardener!) that Freddie found that told Freddie “no.” Which, in Roger’s defense is a rare enough occurrence to warrant screeching.

Brian doesn’t have a hard time pretending that he was feeling under the weather, because he had to run to the bathroom to sick in the toilet. His brain spins a horrifying question, _is he a guitarist too?_ And Roger holds his hair back, cooing about how he needs to take care of himself.

They spend the next week in the studio, recording some single or another. He fumbles with the strings and chords and he can’t seem to hit the notes. It’s the worse he’s ever played since he learned how to. Roger’s blue eyes crest with worry and Freddie promises that they’ll get it the next time. John watches on, his sleeves rolled up, and the long hated yellow bruise is still there.

Brian loves it then.

The thing is, he doesn’t feel like he’s entitled to be loved by them. What he has with them is good. He wants them to choose to love them, but the bruises dictate love (even when you try to not let them, they _do)_. That’s how it's always been. You shack up with the person that makes it go away, and if you don’t then there’s something wrong with _you._

He gets to love the bruise for a week. Brian walks into the studio that following Monday and sees John in a tank top despite the winter air outside, his arm is clear. His hands start shaking and he can’t even fucking tune his Old Lady. Roger walks over to him and places a hand on his shoulder. His eyes wide and lips pressed tight with fear.

“Bri,” he whispers, “are you okay?”

Brian chokes back the question, _is he a guitarist?,_ and manages a shaky nod. Says something about low blood sugar. An aide comes back some minutes later with crackers and orange juice. He has to shove it down like he is swallowing ash.

His fingers don’t stop shaking. He’s too unsteady to handle the Red Special, and John notices it. Roger too, because Roger hasn’t left his side. They haven’t recorded anything, despite Freddie warming up.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

They probably don’t believe it when he nods. He’s ruined that trust for them, by ignoring symptoms and writing them off as something else. The thing is, he _is_ fine. He’s made his peace with this. It’ll take some time and he’ll be back to his normal self.

Brian ignores the voice in the back of his head that sounds too much like Chrissie, _“you might think you’re being selfless, but if you aren’t careful, you’ll push everyone away.”_

Truthfully, he wasn’t that surprised when scarcely two weeks after that she sent the kids to their grandparents and she sat on the couch with a manila folder on the coffee table. The sorry he gave her was bitter on his tongue, because he knew that he didn’t mean it. Chrissie’s hand bruise was gone when it’d been there before she left him. He can’t be sorry that she’s happy when he isn’t.

So, when John keeps pressing with questioning eyes, Brian shakes his head and answers, “I can’t.”

Freddie lets him go home. Brian packs up his guitar, his hands still shaking. He keeps from asking, _is he a guitarist?,_ as he walks out.

“Jim has a new arrangement he’s been dying to show off. I’ll give him a call and have him get ready.”

Brian supposes he doesn’t have to ask the question now. He forgot his coat on the couch in the studio, but he isn’t going to go back in. The walk to his car is cold and numbing. For only being empty for two hours at most, the leather is frigid. It takes him four tries to get the keys into the ignition, and on the fifth attempt, they clatter to the floorboard.

He stares at them for a second. Wracking sobs overcome him. The force causes him to double over, and his head hits the steering wheel. He’s not sure if he’s hyperventilating or crying or a weird mixture of the two. Every sound feels amplified in the small car. His breathing rattles around like a shutter in a windstorm. The soft pattering of sleet against his window sounds like amp static.

There’s nothing to do but hope he can keep his head above the water once the tidal wave passes. He can’t _think._ There’s nothing but microphone feedback. His hands clench and unclench against the steering wheel. Every part of him feels like he’s run a marathon and then been hit by a freight train.

It passes. He feels like shit, and his chest aches with exertion and his eyes are gummy from dryness. Brian leans down and picks up his keys. This time he slots them on the first try. His brain shuts off, managing only simple orders such as **drive** (later he can’t say with confidence that there wasn’t an implied _don’t crash_ ).

Somehow, he gets to his mansion. Empty. He doesn’t have the energy left, otherwise, he’d have another fit _._ Second order, **walk.** His drive is slick from the sleet, and his first step out nearly sends him to the pavement. He holds the roof of his car and the door with all his strength. The effort nearly hurts. Part of him wonders why he didn’t let himself drop to the ground.

A broken wrist, he argues to that part, is going to be the only thing they need to ask the _gardener_ to be his replacement. The short walk from his drive to front door feels like an Everest climb.

Belatedly he realizes the Red Special is still in the car and it takes him so much less effort to go get it. The Old Lady doesn’t deserve long cold nights in the car. He gets into his house. He toes off his shoes. Sets the guitar case down in the living room. His jacket goes over the back of the couch, as do his jeans.

He stumbles up the steps and barely makes it to the bed before his legs give out. The comforter nearly suffocates him, and he tilts his head to the side. One of Queen’s first concert posters mocks him. On it, he can make out both Roger’s and John’s bruises. Freddie’s and Brian’s are hidden by their shirt.

Instead of staring at them all in their youth, he turns his head to stare at the wall. Freddie had convinced him to have an accent wall painted, and now all he can think about is how Freddie wrapped around him while he was picking out colors.

It's his fault. For fooling himself for so long. He heaves out a sharp breath. Brian can feel himself slipping into that yawning maw. He’s not there yet, he can reach out and call his therapist or one of the boys head it off at the pass. Except for that same part of him, that asks why he doesn’t let himself slip on the ice and doesn’t remind him to not crash, likes this backslide. Wants it even.

The microphone feedback reaches a crescendo and it cuts off like it’s been unplugged. He’s left with a blank mind and his heart twisting in two.

At some point he wakes up, unaware he had fallen asleep, to the ringing of his phone. He pushes himself further up the bed, his hips cramping because his legs had been hanging off the bed. Brian curls up into a ball, tighter than any man his height has a right to. Eventually, the ringing ends and stares dimly at the wall.

His hands, resting together almost forming a prayer, are still shaking. He tightens them into fists but that only makes the tremble more obvious. He closes his eyes and lets that ever-grasping exhaustion claims him.

When he wakes up this time, he knows that it’s a new day. His stomach clenches in hunger, but the thought of eating makes it twist. Brian summons enough energy to roll over. He ignores the poster and stares out the window. Lazy snow drifts by. His mouth is tacky with want of water, but he doesn’t move. How would the press even report that, if he just stayed here until he no longer existed?

_Queen guitarist Brian May lays down and dies._

Fantastic legacy.

If he can still be bitter, he hasn’t completely slipped into that dark space. Although he still doesn’t reach for the phone to prevent it. Not feeling anything would be better than this toxic mixture of heartbreak and sadness and anger.

He can make his peace with it again, once he filters his emotions through the drift of depression.

At some point, he forces himself from his bed. His back aches from the stiff mattress. There’s a voice in the back of his head, he’s too tired to identify _who,_ that urges him to use this burst of energy to drink water or eat a piece of bread. Sustain himself. The crueler part of his mind stifles it quickly and almost on autopilot he crosses the room to the full-length mirror. He tugs off the shirt, smelling sweat and salt.

Just peeking over the band of boxers is an angry red mark. He slips them down just low enough to make out the rest of the mark. It’s a circle. When he was younger, he happily thought that it looked like a record because of the pale skin in the center.

Brian wishes for a moment that it was gone or that it was purple. _Something_ other than red. Another switch flicks and he presses hard on the spot. He holds for a few minutes at the skin has turned white from the pressure, but the red floods back within seconds. For a moment he thinks… and then practically flings himself away from the mirror.

Brian stumbles and smacks his arm against the bedframe. The pain doesn’t register. He presses his forehead to his knees. His hands tremble harder, and his body shakes with what he had almost done. After what felt like an eternity, he pushes himself back on his bed.

His phone rings again. He waits for it to stop and then knocks it off the receiver. Brian closes his eyes and then shoves the palms of his hands against them. Slowly his breathing evens out and he sinks back into that exhausted space.

* * *

He doesn’t know how, but two more days pass after that. Brian vaguely recalls making it to the kitchen for a glass of water and dry cereal. For the most part, he remained in his bed.

Today though, he manages to shower and to put on clean clothes. As he steps out of his bathroom, he hears someone pounding on his front door. Brian jumps in surprise and wonders why anyone would be that forceful. He wants to go back to his bedroom; he truly doesn’t have the energy to deal with other humans.

It could be an emergency, and he does want to help. At worse it’ll be a two-minute exchange. He can do that. Probably. He _wants_ to do that.

His foot touches the bottom step and his front door burst open. For a second, he thinks that whoever it is, has forcibly opened his door. Then he sees Roger turn the corner (he gave Roger a key a long time ago, he doesn’t remember why). He had been prepared for a short exchange with a stranger, not anything with someone he knows. Roger is fuming which means he’s going to get yelled at.

Roger stops when their eyes meet, he inhales and then lets out a shaky breath, “ _fuck.”_

Brian doesn’t say anything. He knows Roger’s moods.

“You _fucking_ – do you have any _idea?”_

He shakes his head. Roger’s face shifts from relieved to pissed.

“No, of course, you wouldn’t because you only think about yourself! You left rehearsal early, saying you were sick. Then you don’t answer anyone’s calls, and _then_ your phone is off the line.”

Those were things he did, but he doesn’t get why it’s such a big deal. Freddie frequently unplugs his phone (which means that Roger and John are unreachable).

“You really don’t get it?” Roger staggers back, “that we thought you were dying _again._ Or maybe you had, and no one knew.”

Brian blinks. He doesn’t get it. Why would he suddenly be dying? There’s nothing physically wrong with him ( _except you’ve got a red mark on your hip)._

“You’re serious,” Roger laughs breathless and hysterical.

“What?”

“Have you really forgotten that your liver was _failing_ and you didn’t _tell_ anyone until you turned fucking yellow?”

_Oh._

“This isn’t that.”

“No, really? Thank you for telling us.”

Roger sets his jaw. Brian crosses his arms, mostly to hide his still shaking hands. He doesn’t know why they won’t stop. His eyes spot the place where they bruise used to be. The anger that burns inside him is white-hot, and he can’t stop it.

“Well, you can tell everyone I thank them for the concern.”

“You don’t get to do that.”

He tightens his hands in the fabric of his shirt. Roger’s eyes are bright, and if he hadn’t know Roger as well as he did he’d almost be worried that he was about to be hit. Hands fist at Roger’s side, but nothing more.

“You don’t get to wank off for four days and let us think you’re dead and not give an explanation.”

Brian bites back the reason. He shoves it deep in his ribs. If he makes a fuss about it, then they won’t replace him, but it won’t be because they genuinely want him but because they’ll feel bad.

_Oh, poor Brian. All he has is us. We can’t take that away from him._

He ignores that.

“You know how I get,” Brian says instead.

At least it isn’t a lie. He can stop himself from being a liar on top of everything else he is.

Roger nods, and his fists loosen somewhat, “why? There’s always a reason.”

“Not always. Roger, I’ll be okay in a couple of days.”

He thinks it’s the fact that he called Roger his full name instead of some variation of a nickname. Freddie got them in that habit and he’s being calling Roger something akin to Roggie or Ro for so long now.

“I don’t – we don’t want you to _just_ be okay.”

They stare at each other. Brian doesn’t know what to say. Roger sighs.

“Brian,” _ouch full name_ , “what’s going on?”

“It’s. I,” Brian swallows.

If he says it, then there’s no denial from either party. This is going to ruin it for him. He inhales shakily, and it isn’t doing the best job of convincing Roger that he’ll be okay alone.

“Don’t worry. I just haven’t figured out what I want to do, yet.”

“What you want to do about what?” Roger’s voice wobbles, “Brian.”

There’s no excuse he can give that will make Roger think that this should be private. Privacy doesn’t have a meaning in Queen. Not since John, Roger, and Freddie got together and Brian foolishly thought that offering everything about himself would get them to love him.

Love him in the same way that he loves them, at least.

So, he does the one thing he knows that will get him out of this mess without Roger hating him forever and doesn’t answer. He presses his lips tightly together and looks away. Even without looking at Roger he can feel the swell of anger.

“Seriously?”

Brian closes his eyes at the waver of pain in Roger’s voice.

“Okay, fine. You know where we are if you want to talk. Otherwise, see you when you get your head out of your ass.”

The door slams. He’s going to have to get it fixed again. It’s one of the dangers of living with and loving Roger Taylor. You’re never in danger of being physically hurt but your material possessions are. Brian looks at the door and walks back up the stairs.

All he has to do is make his peace with this development and then he can go back to being _content_ with what he has in life.

* * *

Hot Space happens. Brian doesn’t know what to do with the album staring himself in the face. He can still feel the anger in making the music. John’s Backchat, that they never spoke about. Roger’s constant anger at being nearly replaced by the drum machines. Freddie’s inability to back down from disco.

Soul Brother might be the one silver lining (that and Under Pressure is going to be a hit).

His own resentment at himself turning to arrogance because he didn’t have anything else. He met Jim at some point and while the man didn’t look very Rock and Roll, he can see the soothing effect he had on Freddie’s manic energy and Roger’s temper. Even John has a kindred soul in Jim’s calm presence.

Brian, well he doesn’t _do_ any of that. He and Freddie argue about every single change in a song. Roger and he fight because, apparently, he’s not “sharing” enough. John doesn’t feel the need to even talk to him about issues anymore. It’s really a surprise he hasn’t been kicked out.

Then again, their contract is solid enough that the disaster it would cause in negotiating the break isn’t worth the headache.

Mostly he’s angry at himself because he’s angry at Jim for simply existing. The man doesn’t deserve Brian hating him for no reason. If he can make the others happy, then that should be enough. It’s really Brian’s fault for not trying to find his own soulmate if his happiness is so dependent on it rather than trying to force a theory that no evidence supporting it.

There’s so much evidence that does. A body of proof, except for the one thing that matters, rings red on his hip.

It figures, that the angry red mark would finally deepen to a black-purple after meeting Jim. It _fucking_ figures.

He grimaces through their tour and interviews. They question who the lucky people are to take away Roger’s and John’s marks. Some ask if Freddie still has his. All three of them respond with coy answers that are meant to obfuscate. No one asks Brian, because _everyone_ has seen his mark and most people figure its kinder not to ask.

Most just assume that he’s not meant to have a soulmate. He bites his tongue and keeps from yelling about how its deepened. Instead, he takes a page out of Roger’s and Freddie’s old playbook and distracts himself with beautiful people.

It gets him caught in scandals and he’s been scared off by more than one jealous husband, but at least he doesn’t have to think about what everything means. He’s even happy when the people’s he with scratch and claw at that spot because he feels like it stops controlling him in those moments. He doesn’t have to think about hateful words between friends. That nagging doubt he made the wrong choice.

No one confronts him about errant behavior, so he thinks he’s done a fair enough job of covering it. He doesn’t have to think about Garden Lodge being full of love and laughter when he isn’t there. Like it is when he’s there.

Because they still love him. They take everything and they love him through it. He prays that Chrissie’s parting words aren’t gospel because he doesn’t know what he’ll do then.

He does, but if he doesn’t think about it then he can pretend that he’s as stable as anyone.

His depression also gets worse, but he gets better about ignoring it. There are still days in which lay him up, unable or unwilling to get up and shower or eat. The desire to give into it permanently beats against his skull. It becomes an alarmingly familiar companion.

He might be able to hide under sunglasses and use a woman as a shield from questions. The one place he can’t hide is through his music. Most of his songs take a darker tone than they previously had. Some are good. Some are album worthy; the rest though, is just him trying to figure out everything.

He’s happy with his life. He’s happy having the bruise and playing music with his band. So, he doesn’t understand why he _can’t_ feel that. The touring is wearing them all thin. Brian knows that Freddie wants to ask him about the songs and John wants to ask him about the partners. Roger doesn’t do anything, he watches openly worried.

Jim probably asks about him when they all have dinner.

A half a year after meeting Jim Hutton, Brian wakes up with no bruise on his body. On a subconscious level, he knew it had been healing. To _not_ see it, He doesn’t know what to do with himself. Yesterday, his only goal had been to shower.

No one new entered his life.

* * *

By early 1985 people are predicting that Queen’s reign is coming to an end. A band break up on the horizon. It isn’t true (Brian isn’t helping these rumors loose credit), and Brian half expects Jim to take his spot. He’s not sure _why,_ because he’s never seen a guitar at Garden Lodge that he doesn’t know. Jim’s never tried to talk to him about playing.

Brian thinks he’s figured himself out. After Live Aid, he makes plans to step down gracefully, maybe finish his degree. Find someone else who hates their bruise or never had one. He’ll have a family life that could maybe fill the gaping hole. Most days he can tell his depression to fuck off, but he’ll still end up exhausted in his bed wondering if it’s going to be worth getting up and showering and eating in the morning.

Those days are becoming more frequent as he finds it harder to say “yes it will be.” Brian wishes that this _thing_ could just decide to stay or go, he hates that it only comes around every several months before it fades to an afterthought.

It also feels like he hasn’t had an actual conversation with the rest of the band for a long time. He _talks_ to them, but it’s about arrangements and tours and Jim and costumes and music.

They aren’t the late-night talks on the tour bus when they were waiting for the rug to be swept from under their feet.

Brian sits outside of the studio in late February. He hasn’t gone in yet, even though he’s two hours late. It’s been over six months since Live Aid, and he hadn’t turned in the letter yet. Live Aid had given Queen the revival she needed; he didn’t want to ruin that by creating a media uproar.

Powdered snow clings to his lashes. He’s been sitting here long enough that the snow doesn’t melt immediately. His fingers shake from the wet chill; gloves and pants soaked through. It hadn’t been snowing when he left, he thinks.

The paper in his lap slowly dampens, and the ink on the front is running. He doesn’t know why he brings it with him. It only increases the chances of someone finding it. Asking questions about it. Then not giving him the chance to even turn it in.

“Brian?”

He looks up to see Jim standing in front of him. There’s a grocery bag in his arms. Brian figures he must look confused (the nicest way he can call himself because others might call him crazed).

“Freddie asked me to bring lunch for everyone,” he says.

Jim sets the bag down in the shallow snow and sits next to him, “I didn’t know you were here, otherwise I would’ve made some for you.”

Brian can’t even bring himself to be mad about being left out _yet again,_ instead that deep exhaustion fills him _._ He doesn’t even know why he’s here.

“Freddie said that you were probably sick again.”

Jim is probing. Brian shies away from it because if he can’t even tell _Roger_ who’s been his best friend since 1969, there’s no way he’s going to talk to a stranger he barely knows.

“I can take that letter in for you.”

“No!”

Brian sighs, “I mean. I’m not ready to send it yet.”

“Your resignation?”

Brian very nearly denies it. He doesn’t confirm it, blinking at Jim as if to ask _no, why would you think that?_ Then again, there are very few types of letters that people hesitate in sending.

“Your bag is going to soak through,” Brian says because that _is_ bothering him.

Jim shrugs, “then let it.”

“The food will get cold.”

“They have microwaves.”

Brian stares at Jim. He doesn’t understand. They’ve known each other for years now, but they’ve never been close.

“John was hoping for that,” Brian can’t believe what he’s hearing, “because the only other thing we could think of is so much worse.”

_What?_

“If you’re wondering how we know, Roger saw the letter,” Jim explains.

Brian shakes his head slowly. He’s bewildered and it finally feels like his brain has become sluggish with the cold, because if Jim is telling the truth then that means they’ve known and hadn’t spoken to him about it.

“Recently,” Jim amends, “he practically demanded that we go over to your house. We did. You weren’t there.”

The scene is something he can picture. He knows Roger’s hysterics, been a target of them more than once, especially after he got sick. It’s believable, although he doesn’t get why Roger would jump to _that_ conclusion.

“John got him to calm down, by saying it was a resignation letter.”

“That calmed him down?” Brian says dryly.

Roger might have swapped from hysterical to angry, but not calm.

“No, it set him off worse. Freddie too.”

Brian ducks his head towards his knees and runs a practically numb hand through his hair, “why are you telling me this?”

“Why aren’t you telling them?”

He scoffs, “just because you’re with my best friends, that doesn’t mean you know me.”  
“No, but I know that this is hurting all of you, and sometimes a stranger is a better friend.”

He’s tired. Brian just wants this to all go away. He wants his constant weight of hiding everything gone. Being so angry and then just feeling nothing, and not being able to confide in people because _you’ve been doing so well lately._

And well, he’s never really given Jim a chance.

“Bring them the food. I’ll still be down here.”

Whether or not Jim takes the offer, that’s not up to him. Jim’s eyes widen and he grabs the bag, supporting the bottom, but Brian can already see where it’s ripping.

Luckily, they’re in the first-floor studio, but it’s the furthest away from this door. They’re probably smoking through the emergency exit. He also supposes that Jim could just tell them he’s sitting on the front step with a resignation letter in his lap.

“Alright, where are we going?”

Brian stares up at him, “what?”

“It sounded like you wanted to talk, and I figured here isn’t the best place.”

“You didn’t tell them?”

“It didn’t seem like you wanted them to know.”

Jim offers him a hand and he takes it, “I don’t want… people. Private but not my house and not Freddie’s.”

“Okay.”

They end up in the abandoned lot of the old observatory. Brian laughs because he barely knows anything about Jim other than what he’s picked up by osmosis, but Jim knows that he likes this old place because it helps him think.

What the fuck.

The laughs turn hysterical and then they turn to sobs. Jim must think he’s lost it, sitting in the snow and now this. Jim doesn’t say anything, and he supposes that living with Freddie and Roger that reaction might almost be normal.

Brian slumps back in the seat and watches Jim. He’s fiddling with the steering wheel. It’s the quiet that starts him talking because he can’t stand the way Jim is just waiting and there’s feedback in his brain that’s giving him a headache.

He starts with falling in love with Roger and how he’s fallen in and out of love with them (never really falling out of it) and how now he’s sure that they’re going to replace him because they think he’s going off the deep end.

“And my fucking bruise turned purple when I met _you,_ but all of theirs vanished,” is how he ends.

It seems useless to say that his bruise vanished one day when he hadn’t met anyone.

Jim seems overwhelmed. Brian understands. Jim was probably expecting something like trouble with drugs or wanting to start his own solo career. Not this mess of bottled up emotions. Hell, he probably would’ve left the car if Jim had done this to him.

“Have you been to a doctor?”

Fair question. He probably should’ve been.

“Not for this. I have a therapist, but you know how that goes.”

Jim nods as if he does, “I meant a medical one.”

Brian wonders why this is what Jim is focusing on. Instead of the fact that he’s _in love_ with Jim’s _soulmates_ and has been for years. Jim opens his mouth and closes it. Whoops.

He said that last part aloud.

“Because they _love_ you,” Jim sighs, “but they know you still have your bruise, and they didn’t want to take loving your soulmate away from you.”

Brian feels like scientists just confirmed that the world was flat. He isn’t entirely sure he’s breathing, and because Jim reaches over to put a hand on his chest, he thinks that Jim wondered the same thing.

“They what?”

He also tries to figure out how they’d never notice that his bruise is – oh yeah, he started dressing alone after that.

“Need to talk to you. You need to talk to them.”

“I can’t – don’t want to mess up your relationship, their relationship.”

“ _This is_ messing it up,” Jim says, and he nearly sounds angry, “everyone fighting and disagreeing. Them thinking that you would, well, it isn’t healthy.”

Brian wonders why no one can put the thought into the universe until it’s been done or tried. Not that he _would,_ but even he can’t think of the word.

“You don’t know me well enough to love me.”

“That’s because you never let me, but it was the same way with Roger and John.”

He stares out of the window wondering why it stopped snowing.

“You know, after Live Aid, they thought that they could talk to you again. That they could figure this out with you. It was the biggest push of hope they’d gotten in a long time.”

“Why didn’t they?”

Jim sighs, as though he’d asked that same question many times, “because you left the Red Special in the studio.”

He remembers that day. Mostly because he never leaves her somewhere that anyone could mess with her. Although he hadn’t been his best that day (you could pick a random date these days, and more than likely he wasn’t going to have been at his best), he made it worse for himself because he had left her.

That day he had found old photos he’d taken of them, probably in 1973. Those smiles weren’t seen anymore these days. Before the fame and the drink and the mental health problems, they all try to hide. When they loved each other and music and had dreams.

“They never explained why they couldn’t talk to you, but they were afraid.”

“ _Wonderful,”_ Brian says because he didn’t think he could feel worse about this entire thing.

Right now, when he thinks about their last five years, he can’t remember the good times. It feels like his hatred of self and the constant fighting clouded everything that had been good. He _knows_ good things had happened.

“I’m sorry,” Jim says, “it wasn’t my intention to–”

“No, even if you said everything perfectly…” Brian lets the sentence hang in the air.

_Maybe_ he should talk to his therapist again. It couldn’t hurt.

“Still, I’m sorry.”

Brian shrugs. There’s a cat walking on top of the pile of debris from the observatory. He knows Freddie would love to sit here and watch it going about its day.

“I am too,” Brian says, but he’s thinking about all the time he’s lost because he’s been angry and how Chrissie was right, “thank you.”

“Sure, where do you need me to drop you off?”

“Studio. My car is there.”

“Of course.”

They turn the radio on, and it nearly sends Brian into another hysterical meltdown, because Bohemian Rhapsody is playing. That was the best he had felt in a long time; he remembers all the near confessions. Jim changes the station and this time Brian nearly laughs because he’s still _offended_ that someone would turn off that song.

* * *

It takes him seven months of routine appointments and balancing medications to realize that maybe, yeah, feeling like he had was not something he should’ve handled alone. He judges by months rather than days because he can consecutive days that are bad but made progress during the months.

Jim’s words about seeing a medical doctor stick out to him. So, he goes. To his horror and surprise, there’s a medical reason that he’s bruise hadn’t reacted like everyone else’s. The poor PA must’ve thought he lost it because yet again he doubts that hysterically laughing when you’ve been told you have a medical condition can’t be typical.

Who knew that there was science behind these curses?

Of all things, it’s his _liver._ His biliverdin or bilirubin or whatever isn’t produced correctly. His bruises take longer to _heal._ The PA explains that his hepatitis could have caused the damage or that the condition may have exasperated the hepatitis.

They’ll have to do blood work to make sure there isn’t anything else wrong. The PA remarks that it’s a surprise that it went undiagnosed for so long. Brian doesn’t bother telling him that he ignored it and the hepatitis was why his doctor didn’t react that strongly to his labs.

The whole thing is ridiculous.

He goes to the Garden Lodge after that appointment. Jim greets him from where he’s crouching by the flowerbed. They get along well, despite their history. Brian is mostly happy that he can just _be_ here without thinking about everything he wants and can’t have or how he wants to lay down and sleep and not get up.

Freddie and John are in the kitchen. Brian glances to the clock on the wall, it’s just half one, and it smells like lunch is almost done.

“Bri,” John tilts his head in greeting, “how’d the appointment go?”

Roger takes that moment to walk into the kitchen. He looks at Brian, there’s still a lot they need to talk about.

“It was a formality, mostly,” Brian takes a seat as Roger curls around Freddie, “they took blood, I’ll get the results soon I imagine.”

“Good, I’m glad,” Freddie says.

Brian looks away. He could tell them all now. Lay everything down on the table and let them decide. Jim and he had already had a long discussion, back when he said he was starting therapy. There’s less history between him and Jim, so while he may be willing things might be more broken with the rest of Queen.

If it is, Brian doesn’t have anyone to blame but himself. He inhales and then drops the train of thought. Not that he’ll ever be 100%, but he wants to do this when suffering a setback might not root up all of his progress.

Freddie tilts his head, “dove?”

“Nothing, Freddie,” when John’s eyes narrow, “I’m just thinking about the last few years.”

“No reason to dwell on the past,” Freddie says.

Brian wonders if it really is that simple, and then John is wrapping an arm around his shoulders and smiling kindly.

“Are you staying for lunch?”

“If you’ll have me.”

Roger snickers, “good, because Jim keeps making these healthy meals, and if you’re eating that means I get more chicken.”

Brian rolls his eyes while Freddie immediately starts arguing about why he deserves it more than Roger. John watches with an amused smile, occasionally glancing at Brian.

* * *

He decides to talk to them one-on-one, rather than a group. It worked well with Jim. He’ll post the question and explain everything as a group, but there are some things he needs to apologize for.

“Roger, I’m sorry.”

Roger nods, and Brian knows he doesn’t need to go into all the reasons why he’s sorry. They’re still best friends, with a kind of understanding that the others don’t have. He’s pulled down to the couch by Roger where he lays on top of him.

It’s familiar, they’ve both changed since the last time they just _cuddled_ but Brian likes the new changes.

“I’m sorry too, you know.”

Brian nods. He knows why Roger is apologizing, but he doesn’t cut him off. Roger likes preventing misunderstandings if he can.

“I guess I thought that since you’ve never needed any help that you never would. I mean professionally, and not just me or John or Freddie dragging you out of bed to make music or run errands or just laying with you.”

“S’okay,” he says.

“It is now,” Roger smiles gently.

Brian turns his head to rest it on Roger’s stomach. Most of him is hanging off the couch, and it isn’t exactly comfortable but he’s currently to happy to adjust himself.

John is a little harder. He doesn’t want to talk about Backchat, and he knows for a fact that John does feel bad about it now because he grimaces every time the song comes on.

“I wasn’t at my best,” Brian begins.

“Huh?” John blinks at him.

It’s early enough that no one else is up. John has his tea clutched tightly trying to wake up.

“Back when, I wasn’t my best and I took it out on you. I’m sorry.”

“None of us were,” John says, “but thank you.”

He doesn’t expect John to apologize, it isn’t needed because Backchat, however, mean had been well deserved.

“Are you going to stand there?”

Brian shrugs, “can’t float.”

John sighs, “there’s more tea in the kettle.”

Brian takes John’s cup which is empty and fixes up his own tea. He goes to sit across from each other, but John gives him a pointed look and he changes course to sit next to him.

Jim nods at him when he enters to start prepping breakfast. It’s more than just a simple hello. John bumps into him.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry too.”

Freddie is the hardest. Brian doesn’t recall having lashed out at him more than was called for. Not like with Roger and John. He still knows they need to talk, and he doesn’t even know if this is doing anything.

Delilah runs between his legs, almost as if she’s guiding him to Freddie. Or she’s hungry, it’s hard to tell with cats. Brian opens the door to the study, which is mostly an overly large piano room.

Freddie hums a series of notes and plucks them out. Brian tilts his head, trying to figure out if Freddie is composing or just waiting for inspiration.

“If you’re here to apologize, don’t.”

Brian blinks.

“Roger and John were talking about it. Rather unhappy, well they’re happy you aren’t being an ass, but they don’t understand why now.”

He winces, Brian genuinely thought they were past this.

“So it isn’t that?” Freddie turns around.

“No, there’s something I want to talk to you all about, but I wanted to,” he spins his hand, “clear the air?”

Freddie laughs, “darling, we understand. We wish we had figured it out sooner.”

He joins Freddie on the piano bench and presses the keys he had heard Freddie play, “sounds sad.”

“A happy kind of sad.”

Freddie plays the left hand, “I figured out why you didn’t like Jim, at first.”

“I never disliked him.”

“I’m just glad you two figured it out.”

Brian fumbles, striking the A when it should have been the B. Freddie narrows his eyes at the mistake.

“Figured what out?”

“So you haven’t?”

“We talk now.”  
Freddie stops playing and turns to him, “dove, what on Earth are you hinting at?”

“I’d rather only go through that story one more time,” Brian says because he’s tired of having to repeat it.

To Jim. His therapist multiple times. Hopefully, this will be the last time, maybe for a biography, but that’s a long time off.

“Okay,” Freddie says, “but don’t keep me in suspense for too long.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Fred.”

They get to the end of the sequence again, but this time Brian adds to the melody. Freddie catches on after only a few seconds and joins the left hand. It is a happy kind of sad.

* * *

Two days after his talk with Freddie to finally he works up the courage.

“I’m telling them tonight,” Brian says.

Jim cuts a rose, and then frowns at the stem, “cut it too short. Are you ready for that?”

Brian laughs, “no.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” Jim moves on to the next rose, “do you want me there?”

“You’re part of their relationship,” Brian closes his book, “you’re why I saw that I needed to get better.”

“For them?”

“For myself.”

“That’s good.”

He can’t stop himself, “they still – what you said before – is that?”

Jim hands him the short-stemmed white rose. Brian strokes the soft petals.

“Normally I’d say you’d have to find out yourself.”

“And?” Brian quirks his eyebrow.

“That’s what I’m saying.”

Brian sighs dramatically and lays back down. There’s a bird’s nest, and he watches the bird slowly add in another twig.

“Although, I think you know the answer yourself.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Brian blurts.

Jim sets the sheers on the ground, mumbling about not wanting to damage the bush. He turns around to stare at Brian.

“I am. I thought you were good for them from the start, I just didn’t see it with me.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised with everything else that was happening.”

Brian shifts so that he’s lying on his side. Freddie is going to be upset that he has grass stains on this shirt. The grass is warm.

“How _did_ you know, about the bruise, I mean?”

“Easy, my grandmother had something similar. Except she wasn’t half as dramatic as a rock star.”

Brian snorts, “that simple, huh.”

“Don’t forget to mention that to them.”

“You mean to say that John hasn’t gotten ahold of it?” That would be a surprise.

“No, he saw the pills that’s why you should tell them.”

“I will. I’m tired of not telling them.”

“Not telling who what?”

Roger rounds the corner. He’s wearing short sleeves and jeans, but he’s still fantastically beautiful. Brian smiles in greeting. Roger frowns at that, but happily takes the open spot in the grass.

“I’ll tell you later,” Brian laughs.

Roger huffs, “I thought you were coming over later?”

“Chrissie canceled last minute.”

“Ah, why were you meeting her again?”

“She found some of my old photography books, wanted to give them back.”

“I see,” Roger rolls so that he’s facing him.

Jim raises his eyes skyward but leans down to give Roger a kiss. Brian contents himself with watching the bird again, hoping that after tonight that he’ll get to watch and not feel guilty because he’ll have permission too.

“Oh! There’s a nest,” Roger breathes next to his ear.

Brian jumps, mostly because of the closeness, “they’re building it.”

“Cute.”

“I hope they leave the bees alone,” Jim says.

Roger scrunches up his nose, Brian rolls just enough to avoid Roger sneezing on him.

“Can we go inside? Fred’s been prattling about a guitar solo all morning, he’ll be happy to have you work it out with him.”

Brian nods, and Jim picks up his sheers again. He tries to not think about this being the last day he might be able to spend lounging with Jim in the garden. Roger leads him into the main part of the house, where Freddie’s voice could be heard clearly.

“Look who’s early,” Roger calls out.

Freddie turns and beams, “I’ve just had the most fantastic idea, Brimi. Do you have your guitar with you? Of course, you do.”

Brian’s wrist grabbed and he’s being dragged away. John seems unsympathetic and a little relieved. He knows how Freddie gets about music, but it must’ve been worse when he couldn’t do anything about it.

Freddie is right, the tune is _fantastic._ Brian can’t imagine what the song would be like in full production. They lose track of time, writing the lyrics and ironing out the guitar.

Roger enters with a plate of sandwiches. John trailing behind with a tray of tea and a kettle and finally Jim bringing up the rear. Brian knows that its nearing time to talk about it. If he hadn’t promised to stay the night already, he thinks he might come up with some excuse to leave.

(Strange how he’s here more than his own home these days. Even when he leaves someone is usually tagging along with him.)

“Jim says you want to talk to us about something?” John asks as he sits next to him.

Brian would call Jim a traitor if he wasn’t so relieved to not have an out now. At least not a graceful one.

“Let’s eat first?”

The rest nodded.

When the sandwiches are cleared away, Brian wrings his hands together. He doesn’t know where to begin, and this time the others aren’t anywhere near the same page as him to give him a lead in. Jim seems like he’s going to let Brian make the choice himself.

He starts with the most concrete part. Explaining about his liver but before he can finish with “it’s mostly benign,” the others are already bombarding him questions about what they need to look out for and why he hasn’t told them sooner.

Jim only looks on knowingly.

“No, it isn’t – it isn’t like hepatitis. This it’s just when I bruise, it takes longer for it to go away.”

The room goes silent. Brian knows that his bandmates are geniuses in their own rights, and he hopes they can figure it out without him explaining it. He doesn’t want them to think that he’s just trying to convince them that he should join.

John makes the connection first, “is that why you still had a bruise when we didn’t have ours?”

Brian almost asks him when he saw that he doesn’t have the bruise anymore. Roger looks between them, eyes growing wide in understanding.

“Wait Brian are you saying?”

“I haven’t _said_ anything yet, you lot won’t let me.”

He looks to Freddie who is leaning into Jim’s side, seemingly content to let Brian do the explaining. Brian thinks the best way to do this is starting broad and ending with his request.

“No one noticed it, because most doctors don’t think about checking a child’s liver unless there’s something wrong with it, and hepatitis would be able to explain the rest of the labs. So, I didn’t _know_ about this, until Jim made it start healing.”

Well, that’s out in the open.

He smacks into the ground as Freddie launches himself at Brian. A wheeze is forced from his chest, but before he has a chance to catch his breath Freddie’s lips are on him. It feels every bit as wonderful as he imagined that it would. The kettle is knocked over, and now its spilling and they really should clean it.

“Dove?” Freddie asks hesitantly.

“The kettle, it’s making a mess.”

The snort comes from Jim. It’s so surprising that all four of them turn to face him.

“Sorry, I’ve just never met a man who will stop a confession because he’s worried about the carpet.”

“Brian really hates messes,” Roger says.

“Carry on, I’ll clean this,” John replies.

Brian is glad because he doesn’t want to know what the tea would do to the floor if left alone. Freddie catches his attention by leaning away.

Then Roger is over him, kissing sweetly. Brian feels Freddie’s hands curl in his hair. Roger pulls away and kisses Freddie while John takes his turn, John kisses him hard and long. Brian takes a second to catch his breath while the others readjust. They don’t move from his side, all of them touching him in some way, but they make room for Jim. The kiss is as kind as the man himself.

When Jim pulls away, eyes full of love. Brian is so happy.

“Wait, just so everyone is on the same page, we’re all doing. Brian is a part of this?”

“Yes!”

Freddie might treat the question like a useless necessity, but Brian sags into John in relief. Happy to know where he stands. Happy that he has this now. And maybe he can’t know for sure that it was them that made his bruise vanish, but he doesn’t really care. He knows this is where he wants to be.

This is where the people he loves want him to be. Really, he can’t argue with that.

Before the room falls into a peaceful silence, Jim speaks, “did you really think I was a guitarist?”

Freddie and Roger both launch into heaving laughter. Brian watches them fondly but confused. No one _hadn’t_ told him that Jim was just a gardener. People can have hobbies.

John sneaks a kiss, and then speaks quietly in his ear over the laughter, “love, Jim didn’t even know who Freddie was when they met.”

With another kiss, John falls into snickering alongside the slowly calming duo. Jim shrugs.

“You never asked.”

Brian barks out a soft laugh, which sends Roger and Freddie right over the edge again. This is good enough for him.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't ask me what I'm doing, because the answer is I still don't know.   
> So what'd you think? I tried out a couple of different things stylistically and characterization-wise. Thank god for Jim, honestly. As always leave your thoughts and feelings below, or come talk to me on tumblr.  
> oH! Come join our server! https://discord.gg/A6jqFXp


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